


The Literal Line Between

by literallytoki



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Trans Male Character, also roadhog is there, i'm sorry about this story its kind of a rant about feelings, in which junkrat is a sad cutie, now, ummm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallytoki/pseuds/literallytoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are metaphorical lines between everything in existence, between good  and bad, love and hate, right and wrong.<br/>But sometimes these lines manifest into something real, something tangible.<br/>What happens when you can reach out and touch the lines that trouble you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposition, In which Junkrat is in the Desert - AKA What are titles

  Jamison picked at the scabs on his chest. They marked the defining line between _him_ and _her_. On one hand, he wanted them to heal perfectly, to be able to completely forget about her, about the past. On the other, he thought the scars would look badass. Who cares what anyone thinks? They'll probably assume they're from whatever took his arm and leg.

  Maybe someone would ask. What would he say? The truth? Who would ask Jamison for the truth?

  "Oh yeah mate. I had my tits removed."

  That's probably how he would say it, just blow it off, make it sound like it was easy, not life changing.  
 He thought about that a lot. Who would care enough about him to ask anyways?  
  He peeled off another bit of scab, a small bit of living flesh coming off with it, a few droplets of blood dripping down his chest. He wiped it off, stood up and started his trek back home.


	2. Acquaintances and Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Junkrat fucks himself up and makes a new friend.

    The desert, while dusty and radioactive, was peaceful. The cold night air brushed against Jamison's bare chest, a sigh leaving his throat. Being shirtless was a blessing. The wind swept up little dust tornadoes, little desert blossoms surrounding his as he slowly walked home. Was it really a home if it was just him? What makes a home?  
    He often pondered things like that. He never told anyone, or held deep conversations, he preferred people to think he was dumb. He learned more that way; when people around spoke about what they thought he didn't understand he could collect information. Sure, he didn't have access to higher education, but survival can teach you as much as books could.  
    Those Omnics destroyed his homeland and then the government gave them his home. He was left just an empty man, with missing limbs and missing friends and missing family.  
    He found a new group to run with, like-minded folk who knew that the Omnics screwed them royally, who knew that the government had offered “peace” by making them martyrs. They collected what was left of their shattered lives and build new ones from the rubble. They called themselves Junkers.  
    As Jamison was surprisingly charismatic, he rose to be one of their counsel-like leaders, offering opinions on matters of construction, destruction, and vengeance. He started going by Junkrat, and no one questioned his need to wear baggy clothes in the sweltering desert sun. No one questioned his adventures deep into the irradiated outback. And absolutely no one questioned why he went by _him_ and not _her_.  
    Surely no one would question him when he went and raided some Omnium ruins and disappeared for a week with the spoils, returning empty handed and flat chested, finally happy.  
    Everyone respected him. He wondered how his parents would have felt, knowing their own daughter to have changed what some would say is the core of their identity.  
    Sometimes he didn't want to know.

    He stopped limping and took a deep breath. He had a long way to go still and needed to rest up. It was a long journey from the base to the main cities, and even longer on one metal leg. Jamison sat down, leaning against a rock. He distractedly picked at the scabs forming on his chest, thinking about how good it felt being able to be who he truly was.  
    He absentmindedly pulled to hard and ripped out a stitch instead of a scab. A grimace came across his face as he looked down, an area as big as his thumbnail had been torn through his flesh. Blood started dripping down his chest. There was no way he could make it back to the base like this, no way he could make it back to town, no way he could fix this himself. Maybe if he just rested here, maybe it would seal itself back up. He leaned back further, hoping to relieve some of the pain, only finding that moving tore it more, the blood now dripping at an alarming rate.  
    He needed help, and he wasn't going to get any sitting in the desert. He stood back up, hoping not to tear any more stitches out, and glanced around the surrounding area.  
    All Jamison could see was a blue tarp flapping in the distance. He noticed it was flapping harder than it should have been and looked towards the wind. A sandstorm was approaching.  
    “Of course,” he muttered, “I'm fucked.”  
    He started hobbling towards the tarp. As he got closer he thought he saw someone moving. His vision was blurring from the sharp pain in his chest, and he decided to call out for help.  
    “Oi! Is there anyone over there?” He yelled, hoping whoever it was could hear him, “I need some help, could you...” He barely got the words out before he succumbed to the blood loss.

 

    When he awoke, the sky was intensely blue. Jamison rubbed his eyes with his left hand. The sky wasn't that unnatural blue, he realized; he was laying under the tarp. He tried to sit up, but couldn't muster the strength. From what he could tell, no one else was in the makeshift tent.  
    “How did I get in here then?” he questioned out loud. He heard a grunt in reply. A large man peaked under the tarp, his face had scars and his clothes torn up. He reached his hand in towards Jamison.  
    “Name's Mako,” his deep bass voice shook the ground, the rumble coming from deep inside his chest. Junkrat reached up and shook his savior's hand.  
    “Real name's Jamison, but we don't use real names 'round here. Call me Junkrat.” He smiled a sharp toothed smile and observed the other man, large marks hidden under what was left of his t-shirt, “What's that, mate?”

    

     Mako lifted off his shirt revealing a pig tattoo, it's nose made up of Mako's outie belly button. “I call him Chester.” He wiggled his stomach to make the pig look like it was oinking.  
     Junkrat giggled, “Why not call you...” he thought for a moment. “Why not call you Roadhog? It would definitely fit.”  
     “Name's Roadhog.” Mako tried it out, then let out hearty laugh. “Sounds good.” The newly named Roadhog thought for a moment. “What happened?” He was pointing at Jamison's fine line. A wave of nausea hit him hard, a nervous sweat dripping down his face.

    

     “Well,” Junkrat nervously picked at his hair, “I just had surgery.”  
    “No,” Roadhog started digging through his bag, “how'd you tear your stitches?” He found what he was looking for in his bag. He pulled out a small medical kit. “I could sew ya back up if you want.”  
     “That... That would be nice.” Jamison was visibly relieved, “I have a habit of picking at myself, kinda just ripped one out not thinking about it.”  
    “If you just had this done why are you traveling?” Roadhog asked, threading his medical needle, “You need rest.” He gently pushed Junkrat down to lay flat.  
    “I had to go to town to get money, and then I had the surgery and now I need to go home.” He gestured towards the wasteland. “It's a bit of a distance and they need me there.”

    

     Mako nodded, understanding Junkrat's determination. He began sliding the needle through Junkrat's skin. He was gentle and slow, trying not to catch any muscle underneath the skin.  
    Junkrat still squirmed. The skin was still tender and the pain was sharp and steady. He tried hard to get his focus off it, going so far as to dig his metal fingers into the ground. This, of course, moved the skin and muscles in his chest, troubling Mako.  
    “Look,” Mako started going through his bag again, “Relax. It's going to hurt.” He pulled out a scrap of leather and slid it between Junkrat's teeth.  
    The sharp taste of the leather made Junkrat's mouth water. He mumbled what sounded like a “Thank you” and bit down. He wasn't affected by intense pain, but the light delicate pains were unbearable to Jamison. Mako started stitching, and the pain shooting through the nerves in Jamison's chest again caused him to black out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kiddos, thanks for all the kudos on the last chapter. I didn't even expect 8 people to read it.... I'm kind of blow away. Sorry it took so long for this chapter but TA-DA here it is in all its non-mobile formatted glory!
> 
> You can find me over on tumblr at casually-an-ass, and request anything either for more chapter on this or for other fics altogether. I love you all and I hope you are enjoying the story so far. 
> 
> This is going to be the standard chapter length and I'm sorry the other was so short I just couldn't think of any more to shove into it.

**Author's Note:**

> Trans Junkrat is by far my truest to life headcanon. If you disagree, just don't be rude (:
> 
> sorry about formatting, I'm on mobile also, sorry about it being so short, i swear this is just an intro into what im creating


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